Murder on Marble Row (17 page)

“What in God's name are you doing here?” Frank nearly shouted as he went to relieve the maid of her burden. The instant Frank took Reed's weight, she scampered away, nearly weeping with fright.

“What's going on here?” a man demanded, and from the corner of his eye, Frank saw the butler hurrying from a nearby doorway.

“Help me get him upstairs, will you?” Frank said to the butler.

“Mr. Reed?” the butler said in amazement when he'd recognized the visitor. He quickly moved to help support Reed.

Frank heard footsteps on the stairs, and a woman's voice cried, “Lewis!”

Reed's head jerked up, and Frank caught a glimpse of an emotion he would never have expected to see—naked adoration.

Lilly Van Dyke must have a charm that escaped Frank, he decided. But when he looked up, to his amazement, he saw someone else entirely. Returning Reed's adoration was none other than
Alberta
Van Dyke.

Sarah Brandt would be so impressed that he had solved the mystery of who had fathered Alberta's baby.

 
 
^“
Y
OU CAN WAIT OUTSIDE IF YOU WANT TO, MOTHER,” Sarah said when they found the First Street Saloon. “I don't think this will take very long, especially if he isn't here.”

“I can't allow you to go in there alone,” Mrs. Decker insisted, although Sarah could see that only her motherly concern outweighed her natural abhorrence of entering such a place.

Actually, the saloon wasn't unsavory at all. Through the window, Sarah could see several women sitting at a table, unaccompanied, and they didn't appear to be prostitutes.

“Suit yourself, Mother. You really don't need to be worried, though. I'll be fine.” Without waiting for a reply, Sarah pushed open the door of the saloon and walked in.

A haze of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, competing with the rusty smells of beer and burnt coffee. All eyes turned to see who the new arrival was, telling Sarah the occupants were mostly regulars who expected to know anyone who might enter. She could actually feel the ripple of surprise that went through the room as she strode up to the bar.

“I'm looking for Misha Petrova,” she said. “Is he here?”

The man standing behind the bar wore a giant apron covered with a montage of stains, some new, some old, and some ancient. He'd been polishing a glass when she came in, but he stopped in mid-polish to stare at her. Then his rather worn-out face broke into a smile. “
Misha Petrova?”
he echoed, mocking her.

A group of men at a nearby table laughed out loud, and the women she'd noticed earlier stared at her in dismay.

“
Misha
is a good friend of yours, yes?” the bartender asked suggestively in a German accent.

Sarah had no idea what she had said to cause this reaction, but she held on to her dignity tightly and refused to be embarrassed. “I've never met the man,” she said, quickly improvising, “but I do know his sister. I'm a midwife, and I need to see him immediately. Is he here or not?”

The man didn't know whether or not to believe her. He looked her up and down, judging her, and then he glanced over at her mother, who had lingered near the door, probably ready to make a hasty exit if necessary and hold the door open for Sarah. Sarah might be a midwife, he judged, but Elizabeth Decker certainly didn't belong anywhere near this neighborhood.

“She's a volunteer at the Prodigal Son Mission,” Sarah improvised as a way to explain a rich woman's presence here. “We're trying to help Katya Petrova. If her brother isn't here, can you tell me where I could find him?”

The bartender considered her request for another moment, glancing at the group of men who had laughed, to see if they would make any objection. Apparently, they didn't, because he suddenly bellowed,
“Mikail Ivanovich!”

Everyone in the room turned expectantly toward a doorway that led to the rear of the saloon. In a few moments, a bear of a man with a full black beard and wearing working men's clothing appeared there, looking annoyed. “What do you want, Justus?” he demanded.

The bartender nodded at Sarah. “She is looking for you,
Misha Petrova.”

That wasn't the name he'd called, and looking at this fellow, Sarah couldn't imagine him being any relation to the lovely and delicate Katya. “I'm trying to find Katya Petrova's brother,” she explained.

“Says she's a midwife,” the bartender added helpfully.

The man's annoyance evaporated into concern. “Katya, she is sick? What happened?”

“Are you her brother?” Sarah asked skeptically.

“Yes, yes. Where is she? I must go to her!”

“She's not sick, not yet anyway,” she added, not wanting to lose her advantage. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

His concern turned to suspicion, and Sarah instantly regretted requesting a private audience with him.

“Take her in the back,
Misha,
” the bartender suggested before she could change her mind. “That lady's with her, too.”

Misha looked askance at Elizabeth Decker, who returned his gaze defiantly. Plainly, he didn't know what to think, but finally, he grunted, “Come,” ungraciously, and led them back to the rear dining room.

The only occupants of the room were three men who sat at a table in the corner, apparently awaiting Misha's return. He spoke to them in rapid Russian. They stared at Sarah and her mother with unabashed curiosity, but they picked up their beer steins and left for the front room without complaint.

Misha sat down in front of the remaining beer stein, and motioned for them to take seats at the vacated table. Sarah sat down immediately, intent on getting this conversation over quickly. Her mother was more cautious, but Sarah wasted no time worrying about her.

“How do you know Katya?” Misha demanded.

“I'm a friend of Creighton Van Dyke's, Mr. Petrova,” she explained.

“Petrov,” he corrected her.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Mikail Ivanovich Petrov.”

Now Sarah was really confused. “I thought Katya's name is Petrova.” In fact, Miss Goldman had insisted that it was.

“It is. Russian names, men and women, are different.”

How interesting, she thought. “And from what the bartender said, I guess
Misha
isn't your name either.”

“Is my name from Katya, a child name,” he explained impatiently. “Now what do you want to tell me about her?”

“You know that Creighton's father was killed when a bomb exploded in his office, don't you?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he nodded his big head. “The police, they take Petr away.”

“Who's Petr?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Creighton. He is Petr now. Petr Gregorovich Petrov.”

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Decker exclaimed. “You mean to say he changed his name? To something
Russian
?”

Petrov looked at her as if he thought she was insane.

“She's a new volunteer at the Prodigal Son Mission,” Sarah hastily explained, hoping that would excuse her. “Yes, the police took Creighton . . . Petr away, but he escaped. The police think that proves he's guilty.”

He simply stared back at her impassively.

“We thought he might have come back for Katya, but he didn't,” she continued determinedly. “Do you know where he is?”

“You say you are his friend,” he reminded her. “Why did he not tell
you
where he is going?”

“I'm his
old
friend. I haven't seen him since . . . since he came here to live. You are his
new
friend, someone he trusts now.”

“If I do know where he is, why would I tell you? How do I know you will not bring police?”

“Because I want to help him prove he's innocent,” she said, neglecting to mention she'd do that by turning Creighton over to the police. “Have you seen him?”

He simply stared at her, still skeptical.

“Then do you have any idea who planted the bomb that killed Creighton's father?” she tried.

His dark eyes suddenly lit with understanding. “You think
we
kill him,” he said. “Police think so, too. Because of bomb.”

“Anarchists often use bombs,” Sarah reminded him. “And they're known for killing wealthy and powerful men to draw attention to their cause.”

Petrov turned his face away and spat on the floor with contempt, making Elizabeth Decker cry out in alarm, but Sarah simply glared at him. He turned back to her, his face twisted with anger beneath his beard. “We have renounced the
attentat
, the . . .” He stopped, searching for the proper word.

“Assassination?” Sarah offered.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Killing these men changes nothing. Another rises up in his place. They are like cockroaches. We must change the hearts of the people so they can overthrow their oppressors.”

“The police may not understand that you've modified your philosophy, Mr. Petrov,” Sarah said. “After all, you condemn the wealth of men like Gregory Van Dyke, but you take money from his son.”

“Petr supported our
cause
,” he said defensively.

“By supporting
you
and your friends, at least until his father cut off his allowance. That left all of you to fend for yourselves,” Sarah said mercilessly. “But if his father was dead, Creighton would inherit a lot of money of his own. Then he'd be able to support you for the rest of his life without worrying about his father.”

“You are like the police,” he accused. “They blame us for everything because they hate us.”

“I'm just stating facts—facts the police will know also. If you didn't kill Mr. Van Dyke and don't want to be accused of it, I'd suggest you help find out who did.”

“Help the
police
?” he asked incredulously.

“Help
me
,” Sarah clarified. “I'll take care of the police!”

Now he thought
she
was insane. He even looked at Mrs. Decker, as if seeking an ally against such madness. To her credit, Mrs. Decker simply stared back at him, giving the distinct impression she thought Sarah's claim was perfectly reasonable.

“Mr. Petrov,” Sarah continued, trying to
sound
perfectly reasonable, “the detective sergeant in charge of the investigation is a friend of mine. He will trust me if I give him proof no anarchists were involved in Mr. Van Dyke's death.”

“She's telling the truth,” her mother said, to her amazement.

Petrov just stared at them, his eyes wide.

“We need to find Creighton,” Sarah continued. “We need to make certain none of your friends was responsible for doing this terrible thing. Then we need to find out who else might have wanted Mr. Van Dyke dead.”

Amazingly, she had convinced him. Or at least worn away some of his doubts. “I do not know where Petr is. After police took him, Katya went to Emma Goldman's flat to stay. Emma is midwife, too.”

“I know. I found her at Miss Goldman's a little while ago. They were the ones who told me where to look for you.”

This information didn't please him, but he chose not to press the issue. “The rest of us who live there, we take our things and find other places to stay, so if police come back, they find no one.”

“You said you and your friends were innocent,” Sarah reminded him.

“Still the police would take us. They do not care, guilty or innocent. They just want someone in jail.”

Sarah knew this was true, so she didn't argue. “Would Katya know where to find Creighton?”

“Did you not already ask her?”

“Yes, but I thought perhaps she didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

He shrugged. Probably, he wasn't sure himself.

“She'd tell you, though, wouldn't she?” Sarah prodded. “Or maybe the two of you could at least figure out where to look for him.”

He shrugged again.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Mrs. Decker exclaimed impatiently. “Why don't we all just go back there and ask her?”

Sarah stared at her mother as if she'd never seen her before. Certainly, she'd never seen her like this before.

Mrs. Decker rose imperiously to her feet. “Come along, Misha or whatever your name is. The longer we delay, the less chance we'll have of finding Creighton. And I won't even consider calling him by a Russian name,” she added. “I've known him since the day he was born, and he'll always be Creighton to me.”

To Sarah's surprise, Petrov pushed himself out of his chair, glancing uncertainly at Sarah to see if she would obey as well. She did.

Petrov had apparently never learned the “ladies first” rule. He led them through the doorway into the front room of the saloon. Curious eyes watched their progress, but no one challenged them as they left the place.

Sarah and her mother had to almost run to keep up with his long, lumbering strides, following closely in his wake as he made his way across the traffic-clogged streets. They were only half a block away from Katya's building when Sarah saw Frank Malloy coming out of it.

Oh, dear, he'd seen them, too, and he was heading straight for them.

Before Sarah could think of a way to avert disaster, her mother said, “Oh, look, there's Detective Sergeant Malloy,” and waved at him.

He lifted his hand in response. It wasn't exactly a wave. More like a warning signal that he was going to skin them both alive for venturing down to the Lower East Side to interview anarchists. Sarah tried frantically to figure out how to signal him to leave them alone, but before she could summon even the glimmer of an idea, Mikail Petrov stopped in mid-stride and turned on them.